The Light of Our Yesterdays

by Ken Hansen

  Tomadus began to shake. It was like watching Yohanan executed all over again. No, control yourself. This will be different. You heard the First Consul. Be patient and we shall prevail. He took a couple of deep breaths and the trembling ceased.

  The carriages nearly followed the familiar routine: The Governor appeared out of the first with his red robe with purple fringes and was followed by the Grand Imam and the Abh Beyth Diyn. This time no First Consul emerged from the carriages. Could something have gone wrong? Tomadus madly scanned the square. There, the First Consul walked inconspicuously into the square from the left and stopped well short of the stage. Tomadus made his way through the crowd and over to the Romanus leader.

  When Tomadus reached him, Khansensius put his hand up and waved it slowly toward the ground a few times.

  Tomadus ignored the gesture, walking right up to the First Consul. “What has gone wrong? Why are you not on the stage?”

  The First Consul motioned for him to lower his voice. “Quiet, you fool!” he said in a low voice. “We should not be talking in public. Remember, patience.”

  “I need to know—are we on track?” Tomadus asked.

  “Everything is fine. I can accomplish more here.”

  “Why has Isa been beaten?”

  “The guards did that against my express orders. I am sorry. They will be severely punished.”

  “But why is the crowd so against him?”

  “Tomadus, it is your plan. You asked for adversity. Isa must appear as a man against the world. If the Grand Imam and the Abh Beyth Diyn do not believe his sincerity after this, how could they ever? I made sure the guards only allowed the right kind of spectators into the square today.”

  “You excluded followers of the Way? How could you?”

  “All according to plan,” said the First Consul. “Now calm down.”

  Tomadus turned back to the spectacle. The guards forced Isa out of his mobile jail cell to the front of the stage. As Isa turned away from the crowd, blood oozed out of fresh whip marks on his back. “My lord,” Tomadus exclaimed, “they have whipped him.” The First Consul sighed heavily and then shook his head along with Tomadus.

  The Governor stepped to the microphone. “Isa of Palestine, you have been accused of crimes against Allah and the Sunni Muslim Emperor. In light of the severity of these crimes, I have decided to take this case myself and adjudicate your fate, with the assistance of the Abh Beyth Diyn and the Grand Imam of Palestine. Your immediate release or punishment shall follow. Do you understand?”

  Now standing and facing the Governor, Isa neither spoke nor moved.

  “Do you understand?” the Governor repeated, this time with greater vehemence.

  Isa said nothing.

  One of the guards struck him with the shaft of his spear. “Respond, prisoner!”

  Isa stood mute.

  The Governor waived off another potential beating from the guard and spoke, “We shall take your silence as assent.”

  The light of the sun had darkened visibly. Tomadus looked up and saw foreboding clouds rolling in, threatening the proceeding. A thunderclap tumbled across the square.

  “Prisoner, we would like to hear your defense first,” continued the Governor. “What say you?”

  Isa stood mute and still.

  “Do you not understand that I hold the power to release you or punish you on this triangulum penetrans?”

  Isa now responded for the first time, “You only have the power my Father gives you.”

  “You hear that!” yelled one thug in the crowd. “He has said he is the Son of God! Kill him!” Several others began yelling the same. Another group began chanting, “Triangulum, triangulum, triangulum.”

  “Silence!” yelled the Governor, but the unrest in the crowd grew. They now hurled not only insults but also rocks and bottles. The guards tried to quell the crowd by shooting their rap rifles into the air, but it had little effect. The governor yelled, “This man deserves an impartial trial in accordance with the laws of Allah.”

  “Kill him! Kill the blasphemer!” the crowd kept shouting.

  “Since you begin to riot and disgrace yourselves, we shall move this proceeding to a more austere location. Guards, escort the prisoner inside.”

  “Inside? Inside where?” asked Tomadus.

  The First Consul smiled. “All according to plan, Tomadus. We retire to the stage where we can remove ourselves from the crowd and better control the outcome of this play.”

  As the guards dragged Isa into the official building, the crowd surged forward, hitting him with bottles and spitting at him. “False prophet!” they cried.

  As Tomadus followed the First Consul, he was separated for a few seconds and feared he would not be let in. As he neared the door, a hand reached from the angry mob and pulled him back. He was ready to punch his way out when he saw Peregrine’s face.

  “Dear Lord, Tomadus, what have you done?” Peregrine said.

  In the face of the near riot around them, Tomadus said, “It is under control. Isa will be vindicated.”

  Peregrine shook his head sadly. “I managed to get by security. They would not let anyone else from the Way in. Jochi tried but could not push past them. She wrote this letter to you. She said you must read it now.”

  After Tomadus grabbed a folded letter, several guards pushed Peregrine and the rest of the mob. One of the guards pulled Tomadus by his arm toward the door. “The First Consul wants you inside. What is that?” he said, pointing at the letter.

  “Nothing,” Tomadus said, and put the folded letter in his pocket. Probably just another dagger through my heart. Nevertheless, he knew he would read it when he could.

  Chapter 97

  When Huxley awoke, a hammer struck repeatedly inside his head, his vision bouncing with each blow. This time he quickly found the cause of his pains: a thin layer of dried blood caked on the back of his head. He looked at his sore left arm and saw the needle mark on one of his cuffed arms. He was leaning back on a counter with two-foot long chains connecting his wrists to two metal bars hanging from the ceiling of that same interior cabin of the Infernum where he had blacked out. He could move only a few feet across the center of the cabin before the chains tightened, grabbing his wrists, yanking him back.

  He was alone. He winced and tried to grab his head, but the chains stopped him. Lights were still flashing on various electronic displays, and several cameras pointed at him. The monitors were on but merely showed a still picture of the graceful Infernum at sea. A huge console, busy with buttons, dials, needles and lights, stood in the center of the room—too far away for him to reach with his feet. Why was he chained? Why was he not dead?

  The pain shooting through his brain muddled any cogent attempt at recall. He tried to isolate the pain and then ignore it. He focused on the monitor in front of him and blinked slowly. He kept seeing a few tidbits of the strange conversation with Kadir, his old friend, or so he had thought. What a strange side of Kadir. A few fragments of the poem slithered through his neurons, and he saw the boat and heard the GPS voice from his car again. His heart sank anew. “Shit,” he uttered lowly—low enough that nobody would hear him on the deck of the ship. Nonetheless, his word triggered a response.

  “Welcome back, Scholar Boy.” Kadir’s face now replaced the picture of the ship on one of the monitors, his face grinning with the same cocky look the Kad-man would always give him after administering another beating on the squash court…

  …As the guard gestured to Tomadus to take a seat near the First Consul, the glowing light in his eyes softened, and the remaining image of his old friend from that other world still burned hot in his head. Tomadus whispered, “You are The Leopard.”

  The First Consul stiffened and turned quickly toward Tomadus. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. I… Nothing,” Tomadus shook his head to dispel the residual glow of another reality.

  When his eyes cleared, Tomadus fixed his gaze on the large contraption towering over him on
the sound stage. While the thing resembled the triangulum penetrans on its exterior, there was something quite different about it: the many little holes that normally covered the inverted triangular slab had been replaced by tiny glass lenses.

  The First Consul crossed his arms. “I see you have noticed the upgrades to this version.”

  “What do they do?”

  “All in due time. Quiet now, the proceeding resumes.”

  The Governor and the Abh Beyth Diyn and Grand Imam stood on the stage. Next to them were the same table and chairs in the same spot where Tomadus had spoken with the First Consul last evening. Isa stood below the stage, not ten feet from Tomadus. From this distance, Tomadus saw Isa’s bare back and could almost feel the pain of the cuts and bruises that drew a strange purple and red pattern on his skin. The entire theater itself was empty, except for the guard standing with his spear just behind Isa and another guard with a rap rifle off to the side. However, technicians worked behind the glass wall of the sound booth to the rear of the theater. The public would view this proceeding only through the live visi-scan broadcast.

  “Isa of Palestine, how do you respond to the charges?”

  “I have spoken publicly to the world. I spoke on your visi-scan and in your square not three days ago. I have always taught in the open. Why ask me? Ask those who heard me what I said to them. They know what I said.”

  “Perhaps we shall,” the Governor said slowly. “Can you name a witness?”

  Isa said nothing.

  The First Consul interrupted, “Governor, I wonder if we could hear from one of this man’s closest friends. Here is Tomadus of Roma. He has followed Isa closely this past year. I can vouch for his integrity. He has done much to help the Three Empires.”

  The Governor nodded and gestured Tomadus up to the stage and to the same chair he had sat in the evening before. Tomadus felt a rivulet of electricity surge up his chest and through his arms, so he stretched out his fingers to expel the nervous energy. The creature paced over every uncia of his gut. He looked down as he was led to the very chair he had occupied last evening in his discussion with the First Consul. The stage lights baked his skin and the sweat trickled down his forehead. Focus. He needs you.

  The Governor spoke, “Tomadus of Roma, you are brought before this hearing to speak only veritas about Isa of Palestine. Do you agree?”

  “Yes, of course.” Tomadus responded quietly.

  “Please, speak up. Tomadus of Roma, what say you? Who is this man and what does he believe?”

  “I have followed Isa and the Way for nearly a year now, and I have been with him in many of his discussions with his followers. I do not understand the nature of the allegations against him, because I have heard none. I have heard you would like to determine whether he really believes he is who he says.”

  The First Consul nodded to him.

  Tomadus looked at the Governor and straightened up. “I can say this without any reservation whatsoever. Isa believes in everything he preaches. He loves his God more than anything in this world, and he loves others nearly as much—yes, even his enemies—he loves them more than you or I could possibly love even our own families. He is a man of peace. He is—”

  “Thank you, Tomadus,” the Governor interrupted. “That is enough.” Tomadus began to rise from the chair, but the Governor continued, “Just a few questions, though. Why have you followed him?”

  “Because I believe he is the best hope for our world.”

  “Hope? Tomadus, despite being a Romanus technologist, do you believe in God?”

  “Well, I…I—”

  “A simple yes or no will do.”

  “I don’t know.” Why could he not just say no?

  Isa smiled gently at him.

  The Governor asked, “Were you with him at the so-called “Adin Miracle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please explain what you saw.” Tomadus told the story plainly, never mentioning anything about Adin receiving any packages from Isa or ever doubting the nature of the miracle or anything at all about any potential pharmaceutical tricks.

  “Just a few more quick questions, then. Tomadus, have you ever heard Isa say he is the Mahdi, returned from occultation to now lead us to peace and justice?”

  “No, I heard only a few Mahdians say that among themselves,” Tomadus said. “He has never acknowledged that he believes that.”

  “Very well, then have you heard him say he is the Messiah promised to the Jews?”

  Tomadus bit his lip. Damn, how do I answer without condemning him? “I… I—”

  “Yes or no?” the Governor demanded.

  “I don’t understand who this Messiah is. I am a Romanus technologist, not a Jewish scribe. May I be dismissed, now?”

  The Governor looked at him for a few moments in silence. “Has Isa ever said he is God or the Son of God?”

  “No!” Tomadus responded strongly. Not to me, not exactly. But does Isa believe otherwise?

  “Has he said how he will try to work with the Three Emperors?”

  “No. He is not political, so I do not think it matters.”

  “I see.” The Governor nodded a few times. “Very revealing. Thank you, Tomadus, for your honest testimony. You are dismissed.”

  Tomadus left his seat and walked off the stage.

  As he neared Isa, Isa looked up and said, “Forgive him Father, he knows not what he has done.”

  Tomadus tilted his head, staring back at Isa. How would Isa’s words apply to him? When he sat down by the First Consul, he leaned over and whispered, “What is this travesty? They are not testing him as we anticipated. They seem to be trying him for blasphemy! We have had enough of this, now. Please, intervene and release him.”

  “Calm down,” the First Consul whispered back. “You must be patient. You have said nothing damning, have you? The Governor is with us. We just need to put him on the new device to convince the Grand Imam and the Abh Beyth Diyn.”

  “No!” yelled Tomadus audibly to the sound stage. The Governor looked down at them, but with a quick gesture, the First Consul had the other guard escort Tomadus quickly toward the back of the theater and into the soundproof control booth.

  Chapter 98

  Huxley shook his head at the image of his old friend on the monitor. Was this some kind of elaborate prank? The guy had pulled a few good ones in college and since. But Huxley’s mind kept sifting through the poem and his last conversation with Kadir. He recalled his desperate thoughts just before he sent Sonatina a text last night. No, it could not be. “Kadir, good to see you. I seem to have hit my head on something and somehow gotten myself tangled up in these chains. Would you mind terribly coming down and releasing me?”

  “Why would I want to do that?” Kadir bared his teeth like a wolf.

  “Ah, let me see…because you are the Ambassador of Peace?”

  “That is precisely why I cannot release you.”

  “Okay, how about because you are my friend, although right now I am having some serious doubts about that.”

  “It might be wise to reexamine your assumptions in that regard.” Kadir raised one eyebrow, and then added with a sarcastic tone, “Hux.”

  “I take it this is not some stupid practical joke, then?”

  “That is the first thing you have said that makes sense.”

  “Did you write the Jefferson poem?” Huxley asked.

  “I had hoped your little brain had made the connection.”

  “So now I suppose you are going to tell me about the fate of my father, for when I stepped on your boat, I obviously must have descended to hell.”

  “Good. Good. You understand that as well. You always did need a little help, even if you thought you were smarter than the rest of us.” Kadir grinned and added with an acrid tone, “Sko-B.”

  “And how would you possibly know my father’s fate? You were under 10 years old at the time just like me.”

  “Once again, you underestimate me. I have many connections with many
governments—a few closer than you might imagine. It was a small matter to find out he was murdered. I have known that for years.”

  “Bullshit, he committed suicide.”

  Kadir shook his head slowly. “I am afraid that even that little double myth you have contrived must be sacrificed on the altar of truth. Oh, you wanted to believe it was an accident—so did your mother—but in your hearts, you always believed he killed himself. You told me that in college over a few drinks one night. Do you not recall?”

  “Of course,” said Huxley. “I told you about catching him in his little love affair. You even agreed he probably killed himself to avoid the embarrassment to his family.”

  “Affair? You idiot. Did you forget he was a CIA spy?”

  “No.”

  “Well then, do you think he was really sleeping with an Ambassador’s wife because the sex was so good? No, he was trying to obtain information on a particular Emirati in the secret service whom he suspected of complicity with the KGB. Like you, he underestimated an Arab and suffered death for it. The security officer learned of the plot from the Ambassador, who was more than willing to sanction your father’s death. Even your own CIA knew he was killed because of the mission. Too bad they chose not to share it with you or your mother.”

  Huxley asked. “If you knew this, why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “What, and wreck the fun? It was ever so much more enjoyable to scramble your emotions during your pathetic little investigative adventures.”

  His blood beginning to boil, Huxley took a deep breath. Control. Kadir was trying to pull his strings again. He needed to play the emotion back to Kadir, but keep cool inside and find a way to use the deception. He hissed, “I suppose you had fun playing around with my mother’s death as well!”

  “That I did, old friend. Actually, since the wound was fresh, the salt stung all the more, I am sure. I had a good laugh when Anwari told me you nearly cried at the Church of the Annunciation. I always knew you were just a little baby inside. You act like a big, tough, clever investigator who knows all of the answers, but in reality you are incapable even of dealing with your own mother over a little Jewish harlot. Hanna saw it in you as well. You are weak, Huxley. You gave her up rather than challenge your mother. Worse yet, when Hanna was ready to leave you, you played the coward and dumped your mother as well.”